Primary Colors
by Rebecca Hb
Summary: G1: Tracks isn't as pretty as Sunstreaker. The Lamborghini still can't stop thinking about the Corvette.


**Primary Colors**

###

"I'm prettier than he is."

"Hmm." Prowl flipped a page on the report of Decepticon activity in Russia. He did not glance at the bright yellow Lamborghini sitting next to him in the lounge. If Sunstreaker even *suspected* Prowl was comparing him and Tracks, the Datsun would never get back to the peace of his office.

"Look at him. He's got that bright red face and that bright blue body. Dueling primary colors completely take away any chance he has of rivaling me."

"Mm." Never agree or disagree with Sunstreaker on matters of who is or is not pretty. It would only end in tears.

Sunstreaker flicked his fingers against the Datsun's side-mirror. "You're not looking, Prowl."

"I know what Tracks looks like, Sunstreaker," the Datsun said in a mild tone. Unlike Ironhide, he didn't snap at the Lamborghini to keep his hands to himself. Unlike Jazz, he didn't lose patience with Sunstreaker's obsession over looking better than Tracks. Such behavior required him to endure these conversations, but it also meant that Sunstreaker never hesitated to follow his orders in battle out of a misplaced sense of 'I dislike you'.

"Then you know I'm such a good-looking piece of machinery that it's just _embarrassing_ the way he tries to show himself off as pretty when he's around me." Sunstreaker rocked his stool back on two legs and rested his elbows on the table. For some reason Prowl didn't care to know, the Lamborghini found the human habit of sitting backwards in a seat to be worth mimicking.

The Datsun set down his reports and steepled his hands. One door-wing shifted lower than the other. "I'm curious about something."

"Yeah?"

"Why do you always focus on how pretty he is?"

###

Tracks jerked around at the clashclatter of metal, wings tensing, hand reaching for his gun. But no, there was no threat. Only Sunstreaker sprawled on the floor next to Prowl, his legs tangled in a stool. The Lamborghini glared up at Prowl, while the Datsun stared back, door-wings tilted in faint surprise. For a moment, they held the tableau, then Sunstreaker kicked the stool away.

"I do not," the Lamborghini declared as he stood up.

Tracks heard a barely-concealed snicker behind him, and next to him, Blaster wasn't even bothering to hide a broad grin. The Corvette felt his own mouth quirking into a smile at the situation. What ever had Prowl had to say to everyone's favorite narcissist?

Prowl's door-wings swept downwards. "Yes, you do."

Sunstreaker made a show of checking himself for scratches and dirt, wiping off non-existent dust. He didn't reply to Prowl, and after a moment, Prowl turned back to the datapad in his hand.

Tracks turned back to the table and snerked as he saw Air Raid burying his face in Smokescreen's shoulder, his shoulders shaking from badly-muffled laughter. Smokescreen had an air of amused tolerance about him while he rolled a trio of dice back and forth between two hands. "It wasn't _that_ funny, Air Raid."

"Yeah, it was," Blaster said. "Even if you like the guy, and I know you don't, Smokey, you have to admit that was funny."

"Maybe a little bit," Smokescreen allowed. "Oh, hello."

Movement caught Tracks's optics, and he turned his body so he didn't have his roof blocking the view. Oh, it was just Sunstreaker again. Stalking towards the door with his body tensed and poised on the edge of violence. He scanned the room, slow twists of his head that would be just as home on the battlefield. Typical.

The Lamborghini's sweep halted on Tracks. Sunstreaker **glared**, optics flaring in the centers, mouth tightening. Boor. Tracks didn't look away from the glare, his wings remaining casually relaxed. The Lamborghini might think he was the best thing on four wheels, but he had a long way to go before Tracks would allow himself to be intimidated by the brute.

"Man, if looks could kill," Blaster said after Sunstreaker left.

"What's with the hate-on?" Air Raid poked at the cube in front of Blaster, who nudged it further away from the Aerialbot. "I mean, besides him being Sunstreaker."

Sunstreaker being Sunstreaker was reason enough for any of the Aerialbots. The Lamborghini and the jets got along like oil and gasoline. However, they all recognized that Sunstreaker behaved differently towards other carbots. Probably, Tracks mused, that was part of the reason the Aerialbots reacted so badly to the Lamborghini.

"Before your time, kid," Blaster answered.

"_Everything_ is before my time!"

"You don't have to provoke him, you know," Smokescreen said quietly.

Tracks put his energon cube down before he could throw it at the blue Datsun. Blaster's mouth snapped shut, and the cassette-host leaned forward on his elbows to give Smokescreen a long, hard look. Air Raid paused, looking back and forth between the three older Autobots.

"I do not provoke him." There was an edge to Tracks's voice.

"Yes, you do." Smokescreen's door-wings eased back and higher. "You don't think you are, but when he looks at you, you put on that 'lord of the towers disdains you dirt-driving scum' air that almost puts Mirage to shame. If you could ease back on that..."

Tracks stood in one smooth motion. His palms pressed into the table as he leaned towards Smokescreen, and he felt a tiny bit of vicious glee as those dark door-wings pulled themselves even higher. "I am very tired," he hissed at the Datsun, "Of being told to moderate my behavior because it hurts Sunstreaker's shabby little ego. No one ever tells him to moderate _his_ behavior."

Smokescreen flicked his door-wings to their customary position in a deliberate show. "So the punishment details he receives from Ironhide, Prowl, Red Alert, and Jazz are my imagination then?"

Tracks scowled. "The air is getting too stuffy in here," he announced. "I'm going for a drive."

Smokescreen glanced at Blaster, while Air Raid looked lost. The Aerialbot rallied quickly, though. "I'll go with you-"

"No."

The last thing Tracks saw before he turned on his heel was Air Raid's affront at the Corvette's tone of voice. He tried to ignore it - everyone knew he just got wound too tight and needed to be alone sometimes. The Aerialbot knew it wasn't personal.

Everyone knew that, he repeated to himself as he transformed to his beautiful alternate mode and took off down the corridors and out of the Ark.

###

The sky to the east was just beginning to turn grey when Tracks returned to the Ark. He'd ridden down I-5 into California, letting the universe blur into pavement under his wheels. When the night got too late and most of the humans left the interstate, he had opened up his throttle, almost flying down the roads.

Almost, but he hadn't quite wanted to spread his wings.

He turned onto the gravel road leading up to the Ark itself. All sorts of buildings sprawled alongside the road, advertising posters of Transformers, transforming toy replicas, coffee mugs, "genuine" pieces of Cybertronian technology, plush toys, jewelry, "Decepticookies", t-shirts, and everything under the sun. Most of it was even officially licensed, something Smokescreen had campaigned for years to accomplish.

A group of drunken humans whooped as he drove past, waving madly. He gave them a low honk, which just set them yelling louder. None of them ran into the road, thankfully.

Half a mile up the road, he tagged the radio beacon on the gate ahead. The heavy bar hanging across the road had barely lifted to clear his roof when he flashed through it. He began to slow, though, rolling to a stop as he reached the entrance to the Ark.

Blaster was waiting for him. "Mornin'."

"Good morning yourself." Tracks transformed and faced his friend. "You don't usually wait up for me."

Blaster grinned and tapped the side of his head. "I was listening for the gate-command. Had to hustle to get out here."

"So what do you think is so important, Blaster?" His wings flicked up as the Corvette found himself suddenly feeling quite wary.

"Coupla things. One, fill up. There's a Decepticon leech operation that needs smashing." Blaster opened his cassette door and projected a small holographic display above it. A globe turned lazily, then one bright ping appeared in the northwestern continental United States. An arc of light rose from that and descended in eastern Siberia. Alongside of the globe, a list of the assigned team hovered: Ironhide, Huffer, Cliffjumper, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Blaster, and Tracks.

"This is sudden." Tracks gave the personnel list a flat look. What fun to be on a combat mission with Sunstreaker and Huffer.

Oh, be fair, he chided himself. Blaster will want to gouge his audials out before this is all over. I will merely be contemplating murder.

"You know Prowl. Moves fast, thinks faster." The display winked off, and Blaster closed his cassette door. "Ironhide will give us our orders, but he and Prowl are playing the same tune for this op."

Tracks nodded. "All right. What was the other thing you wanted?"

"Cut Air Raid some slack, man. He doesn't know what's got your feathers in a bunch, and you snapping at him when he doesn't deserve it just means Slingshot's got more fuel for his 'how to be a Class A jerk' lessons."

That stung. Tracks folded his arms and looked down at his legs to make sure he hadn't acquired any scuff marks or dings. "Well. I'll keep that in mind, Blaster."

"You do that."

###

"Suuuu~nnnny..."

"Sunstreaker," the mech in question growled as he punched through a hologram of Soundwave. The device buzzing about the floor beeped unhappily as it lost another of its simulacra.

Too easy. This whole thing was insultingly easy. A flicker of light ran through the wireless brooch mounted on his chest, transmitting his thoughts to the main device. It beeped again, more happily this time, and projected Starscream perching against the far corner of the ceiling. Well off the floor.

Sunstreaker grinned. Nice. Looked like Wheeljack's new upgrade to his old toy was worth the possibility the engineer would break something Sunstreaker liked.

He risked a brief glance at the doorway to make sure Sideswipe was _staying put_- Yeah, he was. Good.

Sunstreaker shifted forward on his feet and feinted towards the holographic jet, causing it to flit to the side. Fast but not quite as fast as the real thing. Lame. Wheeljack should know better.

"Mission in an hour. We've got some Deceptitail to kick!"

Sunstreaker grunted a response, intent on the movement of the holographic Seeker. "I heard. Frakking Siberia. My locks are going to get iced up, and we need snow tires." He feinted to the left again, pivoted on the foot brought forward by the feint, and snapped a high-kick through Starscream's cockpit. "Snow tires! Bad enough the Deceptiscum are going to scorch my paint - at least I can **hurt** them for it!"

"Same old Sunny."

He could hear the grin in Sideswipe's voice, and he turned to remind the red Lamborghini exactly which of them was the good-looking one here.

Sideswipe leaned against the door-jamb, arms casually folded in a way that was almost insult. "It's going to be great going on a mission with you _and_ Tracks. Whining about your finish getting damaged in stereo!"

The brooch flickered. The device beeped. Sunstreaker's optics dimmed. "When this is over, I'm going-"

Sideswipe leaned to the side to look past Sunstreaker, optics brightening. "Okay, that? That is kinky."

"-What?" Sunstreaker stared in bafflement at his twin, the brooch flickering again. It was only when he heard the device beep mournfully that he realized. He spun on his heel, but there were no holograms projected into the air.

"Aww, you made him go away." Sideswipe gave a soft honk of regret. "Never knew that about you, bro."

"Never knew what?" Sunstreaker snapped as he turned back around. "What happened? What did it project?"

Sideswipe waggled a finger at him in mimicry of Red Alert. "Ah-ah-ah. What's inside your head, stays inside your head. I'd hate to be the guy who spilled the beans on your secret fantasies, you know?"

Sunstreaker lunged, and his twin ducked back, taking off down the corridor at a comfortable jog. Sunstreaker paused long enough to rip the brooch from his chest and toss it at its counterpart, then took off after Sideswipe.

###

As far as battles against the Decepticons went, this one ranked up rather high on the 'painful' scale. In Tracks's opinion, at least, but he suspected Blaster would tell him he was biased. To which, Tracks decided he would reply that Blaster was not the one having to dogfight with the coneheads. Well, not so much dogfight as play keep-away-from-Ramjet because while the Aerialbots could take mid-air collisions from a Seeker, Tracks certainly could not.

A deft application of his blacklight when Ramjet got in a tight spot with Dirge had taken care of that. Now Tracks was nursing singed panels as he glided over the battlefield. Blaster had his hands full with Soundwave, Ironhide and Sunstreaker were tag-teaming Megatron, Cliffjumper was keeping Thrust off Huffer's back while the other minibot took apart the Decepticon leech-equipment, and-

-Where was Starscream?

Where was _Sideswipe_?

A flash of bright wings caught his attention, and there was Starscream standing over a fallen Sideswipe. The Seeker raised an arm-gun negligently as Sideswipe struggled to crawl towards his weapon. That just made Starscream throw back his head and **laugh**-

Tracks transformed and dropped like a stone, feet leading. He hit the Seeker like a lead weight, hearing metal ring like a gong under the force of the strike. Starscream shrieked and fired his arm-guns, both shots going wide of Sideswipe, and Tracks didn't have much time to pay attention to the Lamborghini after that. The struggling, cursing Seeker underneath him required too much of his attention. Then Starscream jammed a null-ray in his face and fired point-blank.

-System shut down.-

-Initiating system reboot.-

Tracks came to with the sweetest sound in the universe ringing in his audials. "Decepticons, retreat!"

###

Several hours after the battle, Tracks loitered outside of the medical bay. Blaster's duel with Soundwave had gone rather more roughly than hoped, but Ratchet thought it would take only an hour or two to put him back together. He just needed to get Sideswipe together first.

To pass the time, Tracks worked on an apology to Air Raid for his recent behavior. "Unfortunately you're on patrol right now, Air Raid, but this should reach you by the time you get back," he said, letting his vocoder record his speech to a sound file. "I simply want to offer my apologies for my recent behavior-"

Sunstreaker appeared at the other end of the corridor, stalking towards the medical bay.

Tracks lowered his voice. "I'm afraid I have a bit of company, so I'll try to keep this short. You didn't do anything wrong, Air Raid. I just need to be alone sometimes."

Sunstreaker stalked right past the door into Medical, grabbed Tracks by the forearm, and dragged him along several feet before the Corvette stoped gaping at the sheer chutzpah of the Lamborghini.

"I seem to be getting abducted by a sullen yellow thug," Tracks remarked, "so I'll finish this later." He stopped the recording with an internal command then reached for Mirage-like levels of polite disdain. "Is there something you need, Sunstreaker?"

"You didn't need to do that. Sideswipe could have handled it himself," the Lamborghini snarled, yanking Tracks farther along the corridor.

"What, pray tell, makes you think that?"

"I'll _show_ you."

###

Sunstreaker slapped a door-control panel and dragged Tracks inside his practice room. Wheeljack's little toy chirped as Sunstreaker came in and hovered over to the Lamborghini, and he let go of Tracks to grab the brooch and attach it to his chest.

The device beeped unhappily when Sunstreaker tried to display the terrain they'd fought the Decepticons in. Apparently, it couldn't do that. He'd have to tell Wheeljack about that problem so the engineer could fix it. But there were Starscream and Sideswipe: Sideswipe on the floor with his rifle out of reach, and the white jet standing over him.

"Interesting trick," Tracks murmurred.

Sunstreaker gave an irritated glance over his shoulder at the blue car. "One of Wheeljack's toys. Watch and learn something, so you don't keep making mistakes."

"Making mistakes!" Tracks sounded offended. "If you're so worried about making mistakes, you could at least get the actual positioning correct. Sideswipe was _not_ that close to his rifle."

"I read the reports." Sunstreaker turned to face the blue car, folding his arms. "That's three meters, just like Sideswipe said."

"Sideswipe is in Medical right now, getting half of his body put back together! I don't think he's the most reliable witness!"

Sunstreaker snarled and leaned forward, shifting his balance to the front of his feet. Ready to leap forward, ready to put that arrogant peacock in his place.

"How does that device work?" Tracks asked in an odd tone, staring past Sunstreaker's shoulder.

"It picks up on your residual memory-images and the electrical impulses from your brain-module to develop and display hard-light holograms customized for the person wearing the data-reader," Sunstreaker recited Wheeljack's explanation tone-perfect. "Why?"

Tracks didn't answer him, just stared over his shoulder with an intent expression. So apparently he was more interested in Wheeljack's toy than talking to an actual person. Smashing. Sunstreaker backfired his engine derisively and started to turn back to his holograms.

The Corvette grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back around. "Is _that_ how you think of me?"

"What?"

"Really, Sunstreaker. If you think I'd let you clamber all over me and scuff my paint like that-" Tracks gave him a contemptuous look. "The rest of it is not unexciting, I must admit, but you are sorely mistaken in which one of us would be on top."

"-What?"

"You want me."

Oh, that was the problem. Tracks had some undiagnosed damage from the battle with the Decepticons. "I do not!"

"It's as plain as the hologram hovering in the air over there, you idiot!"

"_What_?"

Tracks gave him a scathing look. "You sound like a cassettobot with a loop-virus in their head."

Sunstreaker gave up trying to handle whatever glitch the Corvette currently had and just punched the other car. His fist clanged against the other's bodywork, and Tracks glared at him. Then he lowered his gaze to Sunstreaker's fist, scorn in every line of his expression.

"You," Sunstreaker growled. "Are full of yourself."

"I," Tracks replied archly, "Am not _still_ projecting my sexual fantasies all over the room. Really, if you want that kind of fun, you're going to need to learn how to touch people **without** damaging their paint."

"I suppose **you** know all about that."

"I most certainly do. Most lovers prefer someone with more finesse than a Dinobot, after all."

"I've never had any complaints!"

"Never had any or never _heard_ any?" Tracks asked mockingly. "Because I think-"

Sunstreaker reached over and yanked the Corvette into a kiss. Their mouths cut against each other, and Sunstreaker's engine growled low and loud, a rumbling basso sound that filled the room. Tracks's engine answered and the Corvette's fingers dug into his plating while Sunstreaker held him loosely by the wrists.

"Barbaric," Tracks husked as he pulled away from the kiss, resting his chin on Sunstreaker's shoulder. "But there's something I've always wondered..."

He blew softly into Sunstreaker's head-vents, and the Lamborghini's optics cycled up several notches at the sensation. His fingers tightened on Tracks, and the Corvette chuckled.

"Don't do that," Sunstreaker tried to snap, but his voice warbled as Tracks blew into him again.

"I _like_ that," the Corvette murmurred. He pressed closer to Sunstreaker, engine rumbling. The vibrations left threads of sensation running through Sunstreaker as sensitive wiring rubbed together inside his chassis. The Lamborghini purred in his vocoder and pressed closer to Tracks, chest rubbing against chest, legs sliding together.

"I like that a lot," Tracks said softly as he blew a gentle gust into Sunstreaker's vents.

Sunstreaker's hands squeezed on the Corvette's wrists, then he began to slide them up and down the smooth metal from wrist to elbows, abradingly hard. Tracks's vocoder staticked, and the Corvette twisted his head to bite at his cheek.

"I like _that_," Sunstreaker growled. He ducked his head under Tracks's chin and pressed his mouth to the other Transformer's throat. He worked there, biting and nuzzling, and when he pulled back, the red paint was cut through with silver.

"You're wearing lipstick," Tracks remarked, and Sunstreaker kissed him to silence.

He pushed Tracks back against the wall, still kissing him. The vibrations in both of them flowed between them, sensitive wiring rubbing together inside, gears unused in these modes spinning wildly, everything winding Sunstreaker tighter and tighter. The way Tracks bit at his mouth excited him all the more, and he ground against the Corvette.

Tracks arched against him in response, optics brightening towards white. The Corvette's engine raced, and Sunstreaker's engine responded-

Everything exploded into white.

###

Tracks rebooted first, and he found the heavy weight of Sunstreaker pinning him to the wall oddly enjoyable. Perhaps it was merely the lack of lovers since he'd come out of stasis-lock here on Earth. However, that demeaned the enjoyment Sunstreaker had given him.

He blew softly into one of the Lamborghini's head-vents, smiled as Sunstreaker's optics flickered dimly. "Good morning."

"Nngh."

"Non-verbal still, I see. Well, I enjoyed that, and I suspect you did as well. Therefore, I think you should take me driving this evening."

"Hnn?"

"We can wax and polish each other after."

"Mmmmm."

"I thought you'd like that."

**-END-**


End file.
